Back
in February one of our mommas (and my friend), Christine, asked me a question. You might
remember the name as Christine is the mother of Janet, whose birth I had the
honor of being present for about 14 months ago. She seemed a bit nervous so my
curiosity, as well as mild concern, was peaked. She asked me,
“I’m
wondering if you would like to come with me when I go see my family in the
village in Soroti on my 7 days off?”
“Oh
my gosh, yes!”, was the obvious answer for anyone who enjoys a little
adventure.
So, last Tuesday morning, myself and our two social workers – who were heading in the
same direction to do some field work – met Christine and Janet at the taxi park
just across the river to catch a passing coach bus heading north. What followed
was a 6 hour journey to Soroti, half of it on properly paved roads, the other
half on bone jarring, back breaking, brain sloshing, glass-shattering dirt
excuses for roads. If you think I’m being over-dramatic and overly generous
with my adjectives, make no mistake, only the part about back-breaking is an
exaggeration; maybe just back-cracking.
At one point, during a section that was being subjected to some much needed
road work that had the two lanes operating on different levels, the bus crossed
over and took on a frightening angle that had even the seasoned Ugandan
travellers fearing for their lives.
Although on arriving in Soroti, I felt old and shaken ragged, the scenery along the way trumped all discomfort. The terrain was somehow different then I’ve seen before; interesting rock formations, small lakes, swamps and bodies of water full of lily pads and small gorgeous purple flowers. We also passed numerous villages with clusters of 3 or 4 huts surrounded by small crops of maize, potatoes and other local produce. These homesteads were no doubt laid out for practicality and not for beauty and esthetic purposes but they certainly accomplished both.
Although on arriving in Soroti, I felt old and shaken ragged, the scenery along the way trumped all discomfort. The terrain was somehow different then I’ve seen before; interesting rock formations, small lakes, swamps and bodies of water full of lily pads and small gorgeous purple flowers. We also passed numerous villages with clusters of 3 or 4 huts surrounded by small crops of maize, potatoes and other local produce. These homesteads were no doubt laid out for practicality and not for beauty and esthetic purposes but they certainly accomplished both.
Once
we got to Soroti, we made the switch to a taxi for the remaining 2 hour journey
into the bush. This taxi was unconventional; instead of the typical 14
passenger mutatu, this was a small, privately owned and run minivan packed to
the brim; 5 in the back, 6 on the middle bench (including 2 small children) and
4 in the front (including 1 small child). As the front had 2 separate seats,
the middle man was essentially sitting on a wooden stool and the 5th
man in the back? 4 was the absolute limit across so he stood leaning awkwardly
over us, bracing himself on the front passenger seat. I’m not sure who I felt
worse for…him for how uncomfortable he looked or the people behind who had to
travel along with his cabina inches from their faces. Luckily for them, he
eventually became too uncomfortable and shifted to the front to share the front
seat with the driver; it only looked moderately unsafe.
It
became very evident upon arriving that white folk were not common in those
parts and no sooner had I taken a seat in front of Christine’s mother’s hut,
the children came swarming. First there were 5, I blinked and 5 became 10, I
blinked again and 10 became 20, and with every blink the crowd seemed to take a
step closer. As no one spoke of word of English, I did the typical making of
faces for their amusement, taking a photo and showing them thing but after
about 5 minutes, it just got awkward and claustrophobic. After 10 hours of
traveling, I just didn’t have the energy to entertain so I sat there and looked
around until they wandered off. Dinner shortly followed (rice and nile perch)
but I couldn’t really eat because I’m neurotic and when I think there’s a
chance I could get sick being in a certain environment, especially when it
would be most inconvenient, I’ll just start to feel nauseous in anticipation.
Besides
starting to write all this down, the evening’s activities didn’t include much
more then bathing, but what a treat that was. Christine prepared for me a small
basin of warm water and set it down on metal sheeting overlaid with a sugar
sack behind the cooking hut. So while her and her mom set up the mattresses and
mosquito nets in the brick and thatch hut where we’d be sleeping, there I found
myself standing and bathing in the light of the setting sun listening to the
sounds of crickets and casual conversation between members of her family in a
language foreign even to the one I’ve become familiar with in Jinja.
Given
the lack of power and the fact that I was exhausted and suffering from
imaginary stomach upset, I was in bed before 8. Between chatting with Christine
and reading, it was near 10 when I actually went to sleep but besides waking up
once (taking the opportunity to switch on my headlamp to try and discover what
small critter had moved in with us), I slept like a proverbial rock.
The
morning was so peaceful; writing, watching, listening, writing, eating a
breakfast of crackers and peanut butter, greeting the random folks who came by
to say hi, taking pictures, writing, repeat…
One
of the strangest parts about being there was that it didn’t feel strange at
all. Something about the landscape reminded me so much of the state campgrounds
I’ve stayed at along the Washington and Oregon coast. Even the way the small
clusters of huts were set inside a dirt clearing surrounded by brush, felt like
a campsite. Switch the huts for tents and anyone besides the yuppiest of city
dwellers would have felt at home.
The
day, which for the most part consisted of the cycle previously mentioned with
the addition of eating up a good book, was broken up by 3 things. The first was
a trip to a bore hole 10 minutes down the road to collect water in 4 large
jerry cans. 3 returned via a bike that belonged to Christine’s brother and 1 carried
with seemingly zero effort atop her momma’s head; a feat that never ceases to
amaze me given how the sloshing would certainly cause the weight to shift with
every step. The second was lunch which consisted of rice and chicken killed
fresh that morning in honor of the guest. As is tradition, the guest was
presented with the choice bits of the chicken…the liver and the gizzard. I’m
adventurous, sure, but gizzard? No, thank you. Luckily, Christine and I took
lunch in our hut and I knew she’d take no offense to my offering it to her. The third event was a boda tour of two
different spots along the shore line. Both areas were linked to fishing villages
with numerous huts all jammed together in close proximity and the shore was
buzzing with fisherman and those that run the larger motorized taxi boats.
All around was the animated chatter of buyers and sellers haggling prices, much
laughter, and of course no shortage of children staring and feigning terror
every time my eyes would be drawn in their direction.
A
storm was coming and our boda driver didn’t waste any time on the road back as
rain drops started falling; albeit sporadically, but it felt rather impending.
It wasn’t until we got back and the boda drivers left leaving Christine,
myself, her mother and aunt that I realized that the presence of the male
members of her family up until that point hadn’t allowed me to feel completely at ease. Not that they were somehow untrustworthy, it’s just that I had tired
of being stared at. The whole rest of the evening was something I will never
forget and an experience I couldn’t have paid for. The rain didn’t come ‘til
long after we’d gone to sleep but the wind picked up and the temperature cooled
so we drank lemon grass tea as the sun went down, bathed under the moonlight
and ate dinner together on a mat kept warm by the sun soaked earth beneath it.
The 5 of us, including Janet, ate rice and pulled fresh tilapia off the bones
with our fingers while an astounding amount of fireflies lit up the brush and
lightening came in quick succession from one end of the sky to the other; I
could have sat there all night watching in awe, stunned into silence by the
scope and wonder of God’s creation. There was nothing artificial about that
evening; no light besides the moon, no sound besides the crickets and the wind
through the trees, no food from a can or a package and certainly no insincerity
in the evident enjoyment we all had during that time together.
Getting
out of the village is significantly harder than getting in as bodas are few and
there’s no taxi park down the road. Christine warned me about this scenario ahead
of time, but I admit to feeling a bit nervous when I went to bed that night. I
set my alarm for 6:30 although both of us were awake at 4:30 and couldn’t
really sleep given the anticipation of it all. The plan was simply this: get up
really early and pray to God that a taxi drives by as it heads out of the
village to start its daily to and fro. By 5:30 I couldn’t lay in bed anymore so
I got up to brush my teeth and pack up the last few things so I’d be ready to
run out at a moment’s notice. I pulled a stool out and parked myself facing
east as the sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon. No sooner had I
sat down though, we heard the sounds of an approaching vehicle and Christine
didn’t waste a second making a mad dash to the road to flag them down. As they
talked rapidly, I waited for direction and soon after I was told to grab my
things and come and after a quick hug and a hand shake to Christine and her
mother, I was ushered into the front seat between two jovial Ugandan men.
6:00am and I was on my way home heading straight toward what turned out to be a
beautiful sunrise.
The
driver was a loud and erratic man who had a propensity for laughing at his own
jokes, driving extremely fast and taking his eyes off the road; sometimes all
at the same time. It didn’t take long to discover that the front seat is not
for the faint of heart and sitting in the back affords you peaceful ignorance
of the many close calls you inevitable experience on any long journey using
public transit in this country. It also didn’t take long before I got my first
marriage proposal but after I informed them all that my husband was back in
Jinja caring for our many children, they dropped the subject.
This
taxi wasn’t going to Soroti, but was heading straight to the town of Mbale and
it was 3 hours before we met up with the main route via a town called Kumi. It
wasn’t until that point that I realized how anxious I had been driving through
the middle of nowhere Uganda on terrible roads, alone, no idea where I was; in
a word: vulnerable. It didn’t help that we were flagged down in one small town
by a group of young men who had some business dealings with the driver. Even
though it was clear they knew each other, the fact that they argued and that a
large amount of money changed hands and a bag was placed on top of the taxi
felt a little too back alley and I wanted nothing more than to get back on the
road.
Fortunately,
the driver kept his word to his kinswomen, Christine, and not only got me to Mbale
in one piece but delivered me to a taxi park where I could catch another mutatu
straight to Jinja. One hour later, the taxi finally filled up and we headed out
on the final 3 hour stretch to Jinja. It was hot and cramped and smelled bad
and the driver was a bit of a jerk. He got super mad at me because I refused to
give him my 20,000Sh until he’d given me my 10,000Sh balance (I had my reasons);
he went on a tirade as he slammed the sliding door that included only one
familiar word: Americans. But all’s well that ends well and I returned to Jinja
sunburned and exhausted but grateful.
Christine’s
entire family (aunts, uncles, brothers, half-brothers) were so incredibly
gracious and welcoming. Among other gestures of respect and kindness, it was
always insisted that I sit on the best chair and was given a small table to
hold my drink, book, camera and whatever else I had with me; in fact, if I
stood in one place for too long, someone would inevitably bring the chair and
table to me despite my insistence that it was unnecessary. What a privilege it was and may I never
forget it; especially during the times when I get frustrated with this country,
I truly want to remember the kindness and generosity Christine’s family showed
me and remind myself that these people were a true representation of Uganda, its
culture and its people.
Yes, I made a slide show. Click here. (sorry for the poor quality, I made it small to preserve data usage when uploading)
Next stop…Gulu to see Annelise!
